


The Lost Romance

by Lil_Jei



Category: Literature /RPS/Historical, Original Work
Genre: F/M, M/M, Somewhat original work...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-09
Updated: 2009-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:22:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lil_Jei/pseuds/Lil_Jei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane finds John’s love letters to Percy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lost Romance

  


Title: The Lost Romance

Author: Lil Jei

Fandom: Literature /RPS/Historical

Pairing: Percy Shelley/ John Keats

Wd Ct: 1000+

Rating: PG 13

Prompt: The art of the love letter.

Disclaimer/A/N: The poets, their work, etc are so not mine. I do not mean to malign or assume anything in regards to the reality of these great writers’ pasts. I take great liberty in 99% of this work. And I most def make no money off this. The poem written in the last part was my attempt at Shellian writing and it is all mine…ps I suck at it. But I did research the writing style and letters etc of both authors...what can I say it's that damn English degree that I got. 

Summary: Jane finds John’s love letters to Percy.   
  


Hidden away in the study Jane could barely catch a breath. She had left the mourners in the parlor. Coming to the study was primarily to avoid her relatives and to also remember Mary in peace and quiet. It was in this very room that Mary had died but it was also the room that held so many memories for both mother and daughter in law. They had spoken many times of literature, motherhood and even love. Not that either had shared their darkest secrets but over time this study had heard it’s fair share of the good and bad stories the Shelley women had to tell. 

 

And it was also where the family kept the books that had launched them to fame and brought them down to reality as well. It was here amidst the stories of her husband’s pain and Mary’s youth that she had found refuge time and time again. And even Mary’s death wouldn’t persuade her. Roaming the shelves she found herself determined, for what only god knew but determined nonetheless. Looking at titles upon titles, there had never been much reason in the library, well except for the one section. The one section in which all that the esteemed Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote, collected, and cared for was kept.  

 

It was dusty with age and disuse. It wasn’t as if they didn’t have other books of Shelley’s it was just that set was the one untouched. It contained the last chapter read, the last piece written, and the last letters written. She remembers her husband and Mary speaking in hushed tones, remembering last moments. It had been a dear and valued addition to her husband’s study, one that neither Mary or Percy Jr. would use. Jane couldn’t remember the countless number of times she would walk in and just find Mary sitting and rocking. Sitting and staring at those shelves was all that Mary had been capable of these past few years. But it was something that Jane always reckoned she understood. If she had lost Percy so soon into their years together she would cling to all that was left as well. As a wife and mother she understood the sentiment, just not the collection. 

 

It was haphazard and unorganized. If everything she had heard over the years about Percy’s father then you could tell it was literally put on the shelves in the order it was removed from the Shelley’s original study. Looking over the shelves she finally settled on something. It had always nagged at her. It had made no sense really, why would the man have books on the history of medicine. It was a rather odd choice for such an enigmatic man. Upon further perusal she decided it couldn’t hurt to just look at one, maybe it would distract her from the looming grief that seemed to seep deep down into her bones. Pulling the one that looked the smallest, she opens it, but she doesn’t find the expected medical jargon. Instead she pulls away from the binding letters, quite a few. Some soiled and aged but others still pristine. Opening one of the nicer ones, she’s surprised by the letter. Leaning against the shelves she can’t believe the words. 

 

_ My dear Shelley, _

_ Forgive me for not replying sooner. I am very much saddened by the news that we are unable to meet once again. It has always been to our sincere disadvantage that the fates do not favor us being together. Just a few years and an ocean separating us feels as if it was a lifetime, especially as mine has been shortened so.  _

_ The doctors do fear for me. That, Shelley cannot be denied, the times I find coming nearer to an end, sooner than I’d like. Of course, you knew that. You knew of this deep need within me to live, scarcely minutes after meeting me. From that very first glimpse of innocence behind such a wary stance you had me. In Ireland my dear, was where my heart stopped and has yet to this point to restart for anyone. Not even this dreadful disease could have blinded me to your subtle grace. For such a dastardly and legendary rogue you even caught me, along with many or so the rumors go. But no offense intended for either of us, I was honored that you saw me, such an old goat at such a young age. Yes I remember the village gossip but was I ever gladdened by your joyful ignorance. Ever glad to have met you and had you for such a short physical time.  _

_ I had thought myself too coarse all those years ago. Too broken is how many would deem me. After such a harsh life I had yet to find beauty in anything other than words. That was until you, dearest Shelley, such a young man who at first glance gravitated towards me. You honored me so; you still do in all honesty. That is why it brings me to such gasping and agonizing pain to say I cannot come to you. And alas the world and your normality stops you from rushing to my ailing side. So forgive us both is all that I can say, at least now, in such a letter.  _

_ I do hope to see you once more. As you suggested in your last letter both of us in Italy for a holiday reunion sounds wonderful. I may even give your beautiful wife a precious smile or two. I must be honest, if only in a letter. In scarcely a decade you gave me all the inspiration and love, a mere beggar such as I could hope for. I do believe you underestimate yourself, even now Shel, forget that and forgive yourself for such lasting errors in your youth. Youth as they say is fleeting and you should not waste what vitality you have left. That lesson, dearest, is one I shall take to the heart and to the grave. If I have learned anything, let it be, just one of many I leave behind in my words, lessons do abound in such plain language, but what of us you may ask. To ask for is unnecessary but to look, to read, and to understand is required. Read through my words and hidden underneath the veil of divine literature is my fondness; of life surely, but of you most definitely.  _

_ If circumstances and choices were different we would find such relief together. But only through our words shall our affection come to the forefront. I was never so blatant in voice and word but you must forgive me that. I have lived lately as I always have, alone and slowly losing what is left. I felt such fear at the thought of our honest meeting and subsequent parting. I would never be able to face you now without breaking. I am barely able to manage the words which flow from my very pen. At such a time in my life and I find it ironic and utterly sad that words fail me with you and many others it seems. I know I am ill liked and not as revered as once was my promise but all in due time the prophets say. But I say now, to you, when the time comes, will you write of me?  _

_ Something simple is what I should suggest. But something loving and fond is what I hope for. If you are all who remember me than my life and legacy is indeed blessed. Furthermore, I fear that I will not see another Irish fall or chilled dusk. So will you dearest Shel go and see Ireland at dusk and remember me as I once was? I ask much of you my dearest friend, possibly too much in light of your chosen exile. But I have the lasting hope that you may grow from that and grow from our memories that haunt you. Choose to leave, to change, and to move on, and you my dearest Shelley will.  _

_ Remember our lives are too short to find regret with choices made. I do wish we had chosen differently. But in all honesty, society and expectations chose for us. I have forgiven you and it is past the time you forgive yourself. And with that in my mind I must turn down your offer for a summer in Pisa. Maybe Christmas would be a better time, one that would allow us both the time to digest that I scarcely have any, time that is, left. I know your hopes are dashed and I do feel dreadful about that dearest. But in my remaining days I need to choose for myself, and I have chosen to visit Italy and perhaps find God once more as I seclude myself in Rome.  _

_ We shall see each other again, that I promise. When was left to you all those years ago but for right now we shall have to see how my health goes. Think nothing of us until my time comes and then if you must think of me then, but only for a moment, do not waste time on such a small mercy. Remember and take heed my advice in poetry and prose. But remember dear Shelley that you are your own until the very day He takes you. And then you will recall those small parts that others had of you and it is with that sentiment that I shall close this missive and perhaps think of our better times.  _

_ With deepest wishes and regard, I remain _

_ most sincerely yours  
John Keats _

Fanning herself Jane fought to stay standing. She would never have thought, not in thousands of years. Jane quietly thinks to herself, *Well it was a good thing I was the one that found it and no one else, lord knows what Percy would do.* Looking at the other letters seem to lend credence to what Keats had written. There was quite a collection of letters from the both of them. Percy’s father must have inherited his letters after Keat’s death. She couldn’t help but feel for the poor man, he’d loved someone only to have no real love in return. Just a sad and lacking friendship if her husband’s tales were to be believed. 

Thumbing through more of the letters Jane noticed something stuck to the back of the last letter. She couldn’t pull it off so turning the bundle over she notices why. It was glued to the back cover. It was poetry and if the handwriting was true it was something by Percy’s dad. Short and sweet, not as long as the eulogy he’d written all those years ago for Keats, it was just as the man asked for. And just as obvious was the love and care that Shelley had taken to write just what Keats would have wanted, the slashes through lines showed that this was all the care taken before paste, age and abandonment took hold. It showed just how much of Shelley’s passion and love had been tied to the older poet. And as she read the lines, her tears joined the old ones already on the page. If only she had such a love, if she had been graced with such wonder and hope she would have never let it go. 

_~~ A poet’s heart I have longed for ~~ _

_~~ A poet’s life I had in hand before ~~ _

_~~ But death took all that I was and rattled it to the core; ~~ _

_ No more sunsets, _

_ No more sea chills, _

_ No more love by dusk; _

_~~ Nothing shall I forget ~~ _

_~~ Praised for a lack of regret ~~ _

_~~ The lack of love has me upset; ~~ _

_ Besieged, _

_ Beleaguered, _

_ And utterly beholden; _

_ The loss I am living with now, _

_ The regret I cannot show, _

_ The love I lived with forsaken; _

_ I lost all that I ever wanted, _

_ And all that I never had, _

_ Never once did I know it would hurt so; _

_ To soon you have left me, _

_ To late did I show you care, _

_ I know in time it will hurt less; _

_ But for now let me linger, _

_ And remember with regret, _

_ And so that I sit in silence and pray; _

_ Forgive me comrade, _

_ Forgive me brother, _

_ Forgive me lover; _

_ I knew not what I did _

_ When I walked away _

_ I broke not one but two hearts that day. _

  



End file.
